Upwards & Onwards
by Regency
Summary: In the aftermath of an explosive plane crash, Luke thinks he's lost Tracy forever.


Author: Regency

Title: Upwards & Onwards

Characters: Luke, Tracy, the Qs, Lulu

Word count: 3653

Summary: Luke thinks he's lost Tracy for good.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Luke sat dazed in the den of the Quartermaine Mansion. He stared at his antique hands shaking before him and tried to recall when he had gotten so old. They weren't as quick and couldn't do the careful, delicate things as easily as they could when he was young. They couldn't hold back the dam of emotions on the verge of bursting within his chest, within his heart.

Fifteen minutes ago, he'd sat down from a busy day of nothing much at all to have a drink when Alice had rushed in with a face full of tears. She told him that the ELQ jet Tracy had been traveling on had gone down just prior to landing in Port Charles; that there was fire and not a lot of hope for survivors.

He curled his fingers into fists and rolled ideas franticly around his head for a course of action. What was there to do? Whom was he supposed to tell? Alice had already started informing the obvious choices: Alan, Dillon, Ned fell somewhere high on the list. Edward, naturally, was last.

Before he knew it, they'd all be here with him, afraid and not showing it. He had to pull himself together. He wouldn't let them see him weak; it was up to him to represent this marriage now. He took four swift, stiff steps to the standing bar and poured that drink he'd forgotten. He downed it quickly, relishing the momentary out-of-body experience it caused. He needed to be someone else; he needed to be someone that could deal with this.

He was still clinging tightly to his empty glass when Edward blustered powerfully into the house. He was winded and notably angry. However, the way he sounded to Luke's ears--something wasn't right.

Luke snagged a new tumbler and poured a scotch, neat, for the old man. He heard his father-in-law conference briefly with Alice before his footsteps made a beeline for the den. He entered, still clad in his overcoat, and wearing what amounted to the most bothered expression Luke had ever seen on his worn face. As soon as their eyes met, he realized that it wasn't annoyance that clouded his features, but fear. For once in his lifetime, Edward Quartermaine was afraid for his daughter.

Luke held out the beverage without a word. Edward took it and downed it with as much desperation as he had only minutes before. He returned the glass for a refill and Luke obeyed without comment. They were both guilty of the same offense: loving one woman and doing nothing at all to show her.

Now, their punishments would be identical: the rest of their lives without her.

Luke took a seat in the armchair and leaned back, helplessly. He didn't know much and had no way of finding out more. All he could do was wait.

There was this feeling in his gut, though, that wouldn't go away. He closed his eyes against the worst of it and blocked out as best he could the images his mind conjured of what she could be going through now. He didn't want to know if she was suffering. He only wanted her home with him, in his arms, and it wasn't a new feeling.

Before long, the front door once again swung open to admit a gang of Quartermaines, who brought in a frightful murmur that worked on Luke's concentration. Amid the sarcasm, there was the trepidation and the dread. They ticked came to tick alongside those very sensations roiling beneath his skin. When had he become so much a part of this family that he began to feel with them?

Dillon and Lulu walked in together, her hand clutched within his. Luke didn't have anything to say to the sight, though he might at some point. Not now, though. At this moment, his thoughts were solely with his wife and how, once again, he failed to be there when she so desperately needed him.

Behind the couple, Alan and Monica emerged with Emily in tow. Ned showed his face from some deep corner of town and they all managed to occupy the room without commotion, taking seats and waiting for something to begin.

Skye entered last and stood awkwardly near the door until Alan surrendered his place to stand behind the sofa. He eyed the liquor display unabashedly. This wasn't exactly a time to phone his sponsor.

Afraid to interrupt the silence, Dillon hesitated to speak.

"Do we know anything?"

Luke nodded his head, taking charge. Someone had to.

"We know that the jet lost altitude about twenty minutes ago with no mayday. It was completely unexpected. Once air traffic control lost sight of the plane, a massive explosion was reported in a heavily wooded area near the airfield. It's resulted in an intense wildfire. They're doing everything they can to get to the wreckage, but…" He halted, disbelieving what he was about to say. "They seriously doubt anyone survived. If the impact didn't kill them, the fire and the density of the smoke would have."

"They clearly don't know Tracy," Skye quipped, "forces of nature are her specialty."

Her words elicited a tight smile from Dillon who dropped his head to look at the floor. Luke knew he was covering and didn't see why the boy should have to share his vulnerability with the entire family.

"That's our mother, battling the elements everyday of her life," Ned added solemnly.

"Yep," he smirked. He put up a good, faithful front, but the truth was he itched for the oblivion of a good glass of Haitian hooch and a woman who didn't speak English but knew the language of men. He missed the old lifestyle where the only guilt he felt was attributed to the vacant blond who'd be so disappointed if she saw just how he'd left their life. This was why he shouldn't fall in love.

"She's a rottweiler," he continued. "She won't go down without a fight." He refused to acknowledge the trapdoor on which they rested so perilously.

Alan wasn't nearly optimistic enough to follow his lead.

"What if she already has?" He asked without malice, though the sharp glances in his direction accused. "I mean it. What if we've lost Tracy for good? What then?"

Ned settled into his seat, tugging at his jacket with a tangible unease. He cleared his throat.

"I think we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. We have no idea whether or not mother even survived the impact. I think we should just wait until the authorities get to the crash site before we deal with any…postmortem preparations."

"You know," Lulu spoke suddenly, "I don't think anyone is asking themselves a really important question." She narrowed her eyes intently as it continued to dawn on her. "Would it be better if she'd died instantly when the plane went down or would we rather she suffered through fire? I mean," her voice lowered as tears dared, "wouldn't it be kinder for her to already be gone?"

Edward smoothed his tie, self-consciously. His thick brows drew together as though in mourning.

"Maybe," he answered in a tone belying none of his earlier discontent. "But Tracy is a Quartermaine and Lila used to say that '_We are fighters_.' We have survived, time and again, through many things. Tracy will. If she doesn't, she will probably have died purely to spite the lot of us."

Lulu laughed, though she was clearly hindered by the very unwanted emotions that silenced Luke.

"Sure, because she hates us all _so_ much that she'd inflict the worse possible death on herself to hurt us. I may not like her, but even I know her better than that." She wrapped her arms around herself and shut her mouth.

Luke was proud of her in this second, for being the bigger person, for caring against her will. He loved her so much because she was beginning to remind him of his first heart. The force of that recollection struck him dumb and he was further stalled from speaking by the lump in his throat.

He wasn't one for sentiment, but this wasn't any old occasion. He'd never feared losing Laura this way--there'd rarely ever been the risk of her no longer being at his side, no longer drawing breath. That fear hadn't been like this. This--this paralyzed him and he couldn't bear the damage it wrought.

He stood unexpectedly and rounded the chair until he was staring down at his adopted family. What he was about to say was as much for his sanity as theirs.

"As far as I am concerned, Tracy is alive. Until I see concrete proof that my wife has toiled from this plane of existence, I don't want to hear another word about her being anything other than alive or anything about _postmortem preparations_, got me?" He made eye contact with each present relation until he was sure they'd found themselves on the same page. "Good."

With nothing else of import to say, they lapsed into a vacuum of the spoken word.

Emily fidgeted, her eyes notably red. Monica covered her hand gently and kissed her hair, whispering softly for only her to hear. Emily laid her head on her mother's shoulder and let her eyes fall closed.

Edward rose and wandered toward the picture of Lila that never lost its place. He touched it tenderly, a flicker of regret lighting his eyes before fading out once more.

Luke reached out and patted his back firmly. It was little more than a gesture of solidarity, but it was an honest effort. Edward only nodded before returning his eyes to the woman whose love would always haunt him. Message received.

Luke continued to move about the room, unable to be still. He thrummed with a nervous energy that kept him alert and cautious, kept him from being caught unawares. He was determined not to be caught out by fate another time. He knew his enemy and thought he could predict it--if he could just get the upper hand once in a while.

It had been three hours since the call had come. Three hours and twenty-five minutes since Tracy's plane had fallen from the sky and taken her with it. At least that long since he'd taken a deep breath, which he needed but couldn't manage. It was as though some hulking beast had sat upon his chest and refused to be moved. It was the weight of losing her, the adversary he had come to adore.

Regardless of his tough talk to the Q's, he _was_ thinking of what came next, what would come if she was gone. He was predicting the many ways his life would change without the indomitable Tracy Hillary Quartermaine as a part of it. The future he saw was a bland and tasteless place without her particular brand of shine to spice things up. The beast on his lungs moved restlessly and he exhaled, shuddering.

His Tracy, only ashes. He rubbed his face as though the action would cleanse the canvas of his mind. Tracy, _his_ Tracy, only ashes and nothing more.

Beating feverishly and sickly all at once, his heart grew five times and he feared he would collapse from its newborn weight. He didn't bother with an explanation as he hurried out of the den and up the stairs to the one place no other would go for solace.

In Tracy's bedroom, he slid slowly down her door and until he landed in a tangle of limbs on the floor. He was further overcome here; maybe that's what he'd wanted. Her scent rolled over him and a million phantom exhalations filled him with her very essence for as long as he would allow himself to believe they had shared this sanctuary once. He crushed her memory to the walls of his consciousness until it was so much a part of him that he sensed it in the creaking of his weary skeleton. If this room was the last of her he would ever touch, he wanted to consume it entirely.

It required all of his strength to get back to his feet but he willingly gave it in the effort to reach her bed. He rested on the edge, reveling in how appropriate his position was to their relationship. He'd never shared her bed, had actually made it a point to put other men there, and now his back was to it when all he cared to do was burrow beneath the covers and lose himself alongside the current Mrs. Luke Spencer. His life was a study in irony.

Emboldened by his misery, he laid back to stare at the ceiling. There wasn't much to think about it. It was, after all, only a ceiling. Its only distinguishing trademark was its owner and she was nowhere to be found. Yet, here, she was everywhere.

She was in the duvet cover, the satin pillowcases, the furniture, and the picture frames. She was in the photos of she and Alan as children, in the rare photos she shared with her own, in the singular photograph at her bedside of she and Luke together. He reached out to touch the image of her face, but felt that if he made contact with this false impression, he might well and truly shatter.

He dropped his yearning fingers and made a further appraisal of her space. Beautiful, tasteful, impressive. They'd been married for over a year and he'd never spent any significant amount of time in here. He was struck again with the sense of having let her down. A chance at genuine, honest love wasted, he supposed.

If he could speak to her now, he thought he might confess his soul. He thought he might tell her that she had touched him in a way no other had since Laura. He might tell her that he loved her, against his will, but that he didn't regret it. He would tell her first, before anything else, how beautiful she was and how beautiful she'd always been to him. It was just one of the many truths he owed her.

Time stretched before him like a welcoming red carpet. He waited for the sounds he dreaded: the sound of a grieving family. Hadn't they earned enough grief, suffered enough, he asked himself. For all their greed and humanity, the greatest asset they had to their name was love. As the Quartermaine numbers diminished, he wondered where it would go. If Tracy was gone, what was he supposed to do with the almost live entity that filled him to the brim? If he couldn't show her, he was lost. So very lost.

As minutes passed like hours, the thrumming of his pulse was the only sound he acknowledged. There was little else to hear. Therefore, when the light familiar steps of his daughter came up the stairs, he knew heard them immediately.

He sat up and stared at the door. He considered running; the balcony was close and he was fairly sure he could make the jump. He didn't want to know what was happening, didn't want to hear the news. His soul was already half gone; he couldn't survive the same sort of loss again.

He was at the French doors when Lulu stepped into Tracy's inner sanctum. He felt his own eyes staring holes in his back, because he was leaving again; he was not dealing with things again.

She didn't reach for him or call for him. He knew she was content to let him go, to let him leave her. She was used to being left behind. If anything, he thought she should feel uneasy when anyone stayed.

He clutched the door handles but didn't turn them. He still felt Lulu's eyes, but the silence was deafening. It was too late to run.

"If you're gonna leave, leave now. The Quartermaines are too busy with each other to come after you." Her faltering exhale shook him. "I won't stop them when they do, but I won't help them."

The cool, unforgiving brass warmed in his capture and he let handholds go. He was in too deep. He was kidding himself if he thought he wanted it any other way.

"I'm not leaving. My wife needs me." Turning resolutely, he met his baby girl's gaze directly. Rain or shine or agony, he was in this for the long haul.

"Good," she smiled, not quite crying anymore. "She's downstairs and she's asking for you."

Luke thought he might collapse when he heard her. He leaned back against the windowed doors and covered his mouth. If the notion of living without her had undone him, the idea of seeing her knowing what had changed sent him into an endless spiral. Damn it, he had to get a hold of himself.

He clutched the knees of his jeans as he tried to catch his breath. "I'll be there. Tell her I'll be there."

"Okay," Lesley Lu departed, clutching herself together as tightly as he.

"I can do this," he said to the lonely room. "I can show her I love her. I can mean it; I do mean it."

He bowed his head and whispered a solemn _Thank you_ to what, he didn't know. Then, he tugged at his clothes, ran his hand over his snow-colored hair, and put on his game face. After all, changes came in stages.

All the usual business, he stepped into the hallway at the top of the stairs and yelled down, "Hey, Spanky, give your hubby a great big hug." He started down.

She stepped out of the den before he could reach the landing. Actually, he never did reach it; she met him halfway. They collided solidly on the stairs and their pretense died with a kiss.

She tasted of fire and fear and exhaustion. There was ash on her face and soot on her clothes, but he didn't care. Her hair was singed and she felt withered in his arms, but she was here. She was alive.

Much more than ashes and carnage and a lost chance too many, she was his Tracy and she had withstood the forces of nature.

Her cheek pressed tightly against his neck, he rocked her gently. Just being near her soothed him. He owed so much to her. She'd brought him back to life. The first thing he owed her was the truth.

He pressed his lips against her temple. "You're one of a kind, wife. I love you more than you can know."

She stilled in his embrace, but he didn't pull away. If she rejected him so be it; he had spoken his truth.

He felt her shiver and was acutely aware of a thing called shock, and wondered why she was here instead of a hospital. He didn't have long to wonder as he noticed his anxiously hovering in-laws in the foyer. He was holding them up.

"Let's get you to the hospital." He made to lead her down the stairs, but she stopped with a touch on his arm. Already a step below her, he looked up to see what she was thinking.

She touched his cheek and tipped her head slightly. "I thought about you while I was out there; what you would do. I pretended you were with me every step of the way. You kept me alive."

He reached up and rubbed a smudge of dirt from her chin. "Then, I guess we're even."

Surprisingly, she scoffed. "Not on your life, husband." She passed him descending the stairs and let Dillon help her into her coat. She tossed back her hair and became every bit his calculating vixen. She was back.

He slipped on his own coat and followed behind the bandwagon of family members, who'd already begun to bicker again. He thought he might've heard a collective sigh of relief as one by one they spared furtive looks in Tracy's direction. She was terror in a bottle, but she was also their terror. Without her, they didn't know who they'd become. Today, they came dreadfully close to finding out.

They filled the cars headed to General Hospital until only he and Tracy were left outside. She wasn't riding in any of the limousines; there was an ambulance idling for her ahead of the merry bandwagon. Apparently, he'd later find that she'd bullied them into bringing her home first. She couldn't bear the thought of waiting so long to see them--not that she'd admit that.

He sidled up beside her outside the ambulance doors. She was even paler in the daylight.

"Aren't you gonna ride over with Lulu?" She was moving restlessly to fight off the unnatural cold.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat, suffering sympathetically. "Nah. I think Young Spielberg's got it covered."

She raised her eyebrows. "Ah." A comfortable quiet stretched between them. "So," she finally asked, "you want to ride with me?"

He cracked a hell of a grin. "I thought you'd never ask, darlin'." He offered her his hand as she climbed into the back of the ambulance with the paramedics. He hopped up after her and took his place in the limited room beside the gurney. The medics went about fastening her in even as she grumbled about how unnecessary all the restraints were. She calmed down somewhat when Luke wrapped one of her hands in his. Finally, she was strapped in safely.

He kissed her cool hand. "Upwards and onwards."

Tracy managed a small smile and looked away. The engine roared to life and soon they were gliding steadily on their way, followed closely by the only other people who loved her almost as much as he did.

"Have I told you how good you look in ashes?"


End file.
